All were young, but one younger and handsomer than the others advanced as our boat grounded. His wide-sleeved coat, or tunic, of soft glistening white was embroidered over with the flower of the plains above us. That he was of rank seemed evident. Gale, who was in the bow, stepped ashore and held out his hand to this fair youth, who laid his own in it, unhesitatingly. “How are you?” greeted Gale, heartily. “Glad to see you. We’ve had all kinds of a time getting here, and it’s good to find somebody at home. My name is Gale, Chauncey Gale, and these are my friends. We’re from New York City, United States of America—best town and biggest country on earth. We’ve come down here to discover you, and take a look at your country to see whether we want to annex it or not. Up till yesterday we didn’t think we did, but the farther we get into your proposition the better we like it. Now, tell us who _you_ are.” During this rather characteristic greeting the youth had been regarding Gale with puzzled inquiry. He answered now with a gentle flow of aspirate syllables—a little address it seemed. The sounds were pleasant to the ear, but often barely audible. As he spoke, he pointed now and then to the half-dozen others about him. We followed Gale ashore, and something like a general hand-shaking took place. The youth’s followers, however, showed no disposition to do more than lay their palms to ours for a brief instant, and then retire. But when the youth himself came to Ferratoni, their hands lingered together, and the puzzled look that had been on the face of each melted away. Then the youth spoke again, still holding Ferratoni’s hand. When he had finished, the latter, turning to us, said: “He is the Prince of the Purple Fields. We are in the borders of his domain. With his followers he escorted until yesterday a young lady of his court for a distance on her journey to the Land of the Silent Cold. It was she we passed. Two days ago something which must have been our balloon bag was blown to them, and it was thought we were not far distant. They have dimly known of our coming, somewhat as I had received an impression of their existence.” We regarded our companion with increasing wonder and amazement. “But, Ferratoni,” I said, “you do not mean to say that you understand their language.” “Not the words. The language of thought is the same to all men. The vibration between us is by no means perfect, but when timed to the slow measure of speech, the mental echo is sufficiently good to follow his meaning.” “Look here,” asked Gale, “can’t you twist up my strings a little? I’d like to get in key and know what’s going on, too.” “And does he also follow your thought?” I put in. But the youth was speaking again and Ferratoni gave him close attention. Then he interpreted.